Recovery
by freefallinginlove
Summary: 24 hours, 24 days, 24 weeks, months and years after the Island, Roger's changing. He's learning, and being, and becoming something he never thought he would be. M for General Roger-ness, which gets pretty grim later on.
1. 24 Hours

_**A/N: This belongs to William Golding, because as a writer, he might have shaped my GCSEs. Also, Blame my kinda sick side for thinking Roger would be sexy. (If he was both Legal and not demented.) This totally came about because I've got a ticket to see the Regent's Park Open Air production a-Monday, and… well, yeah. Roger's sexy.**_

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_**24 hours.**_

He lifted his hand, stared at it, then turned it over and considered the colour under his nails. He used to bite them, he remembered, when he heard the bombs dropping overhead and his mother disappeared outside to try and help his father down to the shelter.

_Father. _

He wouldn't know if they were dead. If everyone was dead... how could he know? And he hardly knew where he was, just on this boat. This big, silvery-metal boat that was cold on his bare feet - for they hadn't any shoes - and his bare, scratched hands and he wanted back on the island.

_Home. _

He wasn't sure where home was. Whether it was back in London in the small house he lived in with his parents - probably gone by now, let's be honest - or on the Island, he wanted to get there, find his routine once again, and maybe try to forget what he had done. Lifting his hand again, he took in the cracks of his broken fingernails and wondered, even in his own head, if it was just his fault. Or if someone else had been there too, helping him out. _No, not helping, making him worse than he already was. _

_Please. _

He wanted another shower. He hadn't felt clean since getting on the boat - but he hadn't felt clean in however long they'd been on the Island, either. They'd left him, Ralph, Jack and a few of the littluns on the beach until last - they'd left him til last, again, just like they'd left him to be the last boy to get on the plane, the last little boy - though he was sixteen, and so one of the oldest, surely. None of that counted when they were waiting for a boat. None of it.

_Please. _

"Can I use the showers again, sir?" He looked up at the man who was watching over him. There were four of them in this room, Jack, Maurice, Ralph and himself, all of them supposed to be eating food in the mess-hall, or whatever it was called, but... Roger just wasn't hungry. He didn't need to eat. Not then. Probably not ever - it was quite a thing, really, that they hadn't descended into cannibalism... but, then again, Jack had suggested killing littluns more than once.

_Sick bastard. _

Sick, ill, wrong, disgusting. He was sure he would hear the story more than once, and he would be called those things more than once. But he had nothing to retaliate with. He was all of those things, and more, and the worst thing was, he wondered whether the desire to kill - to sharpen a stick at both ends, just like Jack had ordered... would ever go away.

"C-can I?" he repeated after a half-minute of silence. He hadn't heard his voice breaking through the silence in such a long time - usually he was cutting across Jack or Ralph or that damned Pigg- either way, it shocked him. How his voice cracked halfway through a word, and how he didn't remember himself sounding like this before.

"I suppose." His guardian sighed, "You know where you're going." Roger simply nodded and went to gather his wash things, his thoughts back on the island, where washing was simpler than soap. It was running into the sea naked and coming back ten minutes later with your hair making your eyes sting because of the salt and the length of it dripping into your eyes.

"Yes, sir." He disappeared down the corridor and tried to steady his feet as the ship lurched on the waves. Falling to the side, clinging onto the handrail and muttering profanities under his breath, Roger carried on until he was stood in the shower room and could finally disrobe, hurl himself under the hot water spray and try to get the feeling of discomfort out of his skin. Ten minutes later, he felt as though he had rubbed his shoulders raw. His lips were curved back in a grimace of pain, and he dreaded reaching for a towel to pat his body dry. Half of him hoped that there would be blood on the fabric. He wanted it gone. All of it... and he wanted the proof that it was no longer there.

Instead, he was disappointed, standing to look in the full length mirror and realising he had done nothing but aggravate the sunburn on his shoulders by peeling the layers of skin away. Irritated by that fact, he shouldered the towel, wincing, and licked his lips, feeling the cracks in his skin as he sighed and pulled the soft clothes back on. Even they felt alien to him, clothes which were cleaned, ironed and starched ready for him in the morning. They gave them all to him - to all of them, and even then some of it didn't fit.

_Alien. _

Silently, he stepped back into the quarters they were sharing, and sat down on his bed, staring at his hands once more. After the fourth shower, he had finally felt... well, clean enough. He still felt a little ill, hungry now, more than anything, but he didn't want to turn up for food, have to walk in on his own like he had before. He would go to breakfast tomorrow, be friendly then, try to garner some... companionship.

He had longed for it on the Island, a friend, maybe from another school, because in the other half of the plane, all of his friends were gone. Not that he had that many in the first place, but that was beside the point. He was lonely again, now, because all of the boys were trailing back into the room and not looking at him. Didn't matter, he supposed, as long as he still had Jack. Smiling slightly, though it was obviously forced, he looked up at his friend. Immediately, the redhead looked away.

_Even Jack looked at him like he was afraid. _

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**Opinions**?


	2. 24 Days

_**A/N: Obviously, it all belongs to William Golding. Roger's permitting me to use this, on pain of death if I profit. I'm terrified of him, so… no profit here. **_

_**There're likely only to be 5 chapters of this, plus anything extra anybody asks for, and they're likely to be short. But I'm liking the response so far. **_

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_**24 Days**_

Dark. It was always dark when he woke up, tears streaking down his face in the darkness of the bedroom he shared with the son of the family he'd been evacuated to. _Evacuee. _Sounded strange, even to his ears, and he'd heard the screams of boys in the night, of beasties and bogies, staring them in the face.

He wondered, for a second, why he had woken up crying. He had just turned seventeen, for heaven's sake - why would he be having nightmares? He wasn't a littlun anymore, and that meant that he should be in control of his dreams. They were only that, right? And hadn't that little boy - the one that... that had been the pig... hadn't he once said that the beastie was in them? Not necessarily something to be afraid of.

He blinked, then, in the darkness, thought he saw it. Covers and bedsheets flew into the dusty air as he let out a shout and curled up against his pillow, staring at the back wall of the room, seeing shadows that weren't there. Black, bat-like shadows that reared up and back with the wind. _Airman. _He tried to whisper the word but found it sticking on his tongue. He tried to take away the fear. Simon had told them it was a man. _Simon. _The first time he'd thought the name consciously in a month, and it willed away the fear. Instead, shame and guilt rolled in upon him, and he fell back to the bed, closed his eyes and tried not to cry.

Morning came without another nightmare. It was cold, bright and looked beautiful as he looked out of the window into the rolling green hills of... well, of wherever he was, and he let out a sigh as he realised the family's son was staring at him across the bedroom floor.

"What?" He hissed, staring back at him with a scowl.

"You... you were screaming again."

"I don't know what you mean." Roger grunted, looking at the floor. "I didn't scream."

"You did. All night." The little kid muttered, "Woke me up twice. Mum came in and looked at you as well. When she shut the door, you just..." He stopped and tilted his head, looking at the older boy with narrowed eyes. "Who's Simon?"

"What?" There was a low rumble in his chest as he said the word, and the boy before him cowered. In a flash, he was on his feet and had crossed the room, hands at the littler kid's throat.

"H-hey!" He managed to choke. "What're you doing?"

"You say a word about that..." Roger hesitated at the feel of the pulse under his hands, "Or you... think about it, even..." He was breathing heavily now, and he was shaking, he knew it, "Simon's dead." He gasped, and there was a moment of silence, his chest heaving and his lips parted.

"S-Simon?" He had moved before it had registered in his brain, and his hand had snapped across the smaller boy's face. He reeled a little bit, looking up at Roger with darker eyes, embarrassed and afraid of him as he pulled up his arms and flinched as Roger dropped him back to the bed.

"What did I tell you?" Another growl, and he bit his lip as the smaller boy cowered. "Exactly. Say another word and..." He let the threat hang in the air.

"B-but..." Roger gripped the boy by the throat once again, and with a gasp, the boy got the message. "I won't... say a word." He nodded at the littler one, and smirked.

"Good boy."

No way to explain the feeling that was coursing through his body, other than sheer excitement, Roger retreated to his bed and tucked his feet underneath him. There was a pounding in his ears, exploding rushes of sound that made him gasp as he shook in his seat, the grin on his face making his cheeks tauten, ache with pain as he replayed the fear in the little boy's eyes. Groaning in some kind of... sick pleasure, he felt his face grow hot and the sheen of sweat across his face as he felt the fire again.

_Fire. You let the fire out. We need a fire to get rescued. Kill the pig! Cut her thoat! Spill her blood! It's only a man! The beast! What if it's just... us? _

"Simon." Whispering quietly, lifting his hands and seeing no sand, no blood, no foul, Roger peered through his fingers at the little boy watching him from across the room.

He wanted to vomit. But he wanted to do it all again.

Rocketing back up from the sheets and barely sparing a glance for the other bed in the room, he let out a growl and searched through his half of the meagre wardrobe for some clothes. Any clothes. Clothes that would cover what was painfully obvious in his lower half, and the scars that cris-crossed his upper torso. He needed to get away. Away now, before he felt his chest tighten and that powerful roar that had frightened all of them - Sam, Eric, Robert, Bill, painted faces that cowered before him and stared at him and waited for him to move.

_Even Jack was afraid of him. _

An open-necked shirt and a pair of heavy denim trousers later, he was looking at his face in the bathroom mirror and feeling sick. Brushing his teeth and forcing the feeling of sickness back down into the pits of his stomach where they belonged, Roger smiled back at himself in the mirror and let out a low chuckle. That was, until he returned to his bedroom to make his bed, and noticed that the boy hadn't moved.

"Well?"

"I-I... I'm going to breakfast." Still in his pyjamas, the little boy's eyes darted to the way Roger's fists were clenched so tight that his skin had gone white, then he launched to his feet, picked up his dressing gown and ran away, thundering down the stairs to the safety of his mother. She looked up as Roger followed him downstairs.

"Alright, sweets?" She patted the older boy's shoulder as he sat down at the table, "Did you have a bad night's sleep?"

"Me? Yes, ma'am. Apparently so." He smiled at her, though his tired eyes gave his stress away. "I'm sorry if I woke you at all."

"No, no." She parried it off because of the dark glint in the boy's eye. He was seventeen now, and the war was nearly over, but she just didn't want to let him go. He looked long broken, as though his time before the war had worn him down, and now he had been rescued from an Island he refused to talk about...

The sweetheart screamed in his sleep, and Mrs. Elaine Robertson didn't want it to continue. Her heart broke for him, the sweet boy who was so kind to her in the daytime and so distraught during the night. Sure, sometimes, when he saw her putting colour on her cheeks, or liner around her eyes, he would back up, almost gasp and ask her not to, as though he was afraid of it - of painted faces and makeup.

"Dazzle paint." He whispered, whenever he saw her dressed that way, and she would snort and laugh, but he would simply stand there, watching her with panic all across his face, waiting.

More than once, she had lost blusher or a black eyeliner. Her lipstick had gone missing... but she never questioned him - what he had seen in his time away had given him an aversion to whatever she was wearing. He didn't like painted faces, though, that was for sure.

After breakfast, quietly, Roger clambered out of his chair and began to wash up for his makeshift mother. In his own little world, he kept his eyes on the plates and forks that everyone had eaten with, feeling his hair fall into his eyes and lock down the shutter in his brain.

_He wanted... He wanted... _There was a pause in his head, where everything went silent and he locked down. _He wanted... the Island. The Freedom. Something to hunt, hurt and... _

"Did you want to..." He turned to look at the lady stood before him, still in her nightgown and smiling, "I could ask the Gamekeeper up at the house if you want some work?" A pause, where Roger looked up at the woman with a small smile.

"Thank you, ma'am." He smiled again, eyes wide and gleaming as he stared back at his makeshift sibling. As long as he kept quiet... As long as he had something to control... _he would be okay. _

Roger suddenly felt as though it would_ all _be okay.

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**_Any love left is mucho d'appreciated..._**


	3. 24 Weeks

_**Disclaimer: Not mine. Not at all. **_

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_**24 Weeks**_

Roger was in his element in the dark, dingy… well, _shed _was the only word for it. Feathers and blood covered his boots and the floor as he pulled, plucked, moved and manipulated the dead animals, all from the recent hunt, and he tried to make them as pretty as possible.

They had to be pretty, or the parties in the shoot wouldn't want to take them.

Two knocks on the door of the shed and Roger jolted out of his skin, almost dropping the ball of twine he was using to bind the legs of the poor pheasants that were hanging from the ceiling.

"Roger?" The soft voice filtered through the door, cracks in the wood and the frame making it clearer than it would have been, "Are you still in the dark?"

"S'easier." He muttered back, still disbelieving the voice that was echoing through his throat. Since the island, it had only been six months, but it felt like years. He had had a growth spurt, his voice had finally, terminally broken so that he didn't suddenly squawk mid-word, and his face... well, more than one girl in the small village had turned to look at him for a time that he didn't know what to make of.

"Easier?" Now she was opening the door and looking at him, peering from the bright summer sunshine into his dark, enclosed space.

"I don't have to look at them." A small smile graced his face and he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "Urgh." And he didn't think he'd _**ever**_say that about having blood on his face.

"Why do it?" She put her hand out to help him from the shed - though he didn't need it, he took it, feeling the small softness of her palm and smiling to himself as her lips curved upwards. "If you don't like it, why do it?"

"Money? Boredom? Repentence..." He whispered the latter, looking down at his feet, "Anything, really, it just gets me out of the house."

"You live with the Robertsons? I thought they were a good family?" She paused, "You know, very kind."

"They are," He blushed as he realised she had a basket on her forearm. "You brought lunch?"

"No, silly, I bought an empty basket to fool you!" Her sarcasm made him laugh. Very few girls around here dared to challenge him, and at least this one made him laugh. "Come on. Surely you'd like something to eat?"

"I need to wash..." He gestured at his face and hands, "I need to go back to the house-"

"Let's go down to the river? We can clean up there?" She laughed, pulling him by his filthy hands down to the banks of the tiny river that bordered the property.

"Ellie!" He tried pulling back, only succeeding in making her stumble and laugh even harder as she doubled her efforts to pull him across the grass. "Come on, Elinor! Don't be so rough!"

_Rough. Pull. Wash in the water. In the streams, splash your faces away from the drinking water, boys. Don't dirty it. We need it clean to drink. _

Still she pulled, but this time when Roger pulled back, he yanked hard enough to bring her to her knees, spinning her in a half circle as he gazed back at her and looked down into her eyes.

"I told you, didn't I?" He crouched, leaning on one knee and balancing his elbow on the other one, still staring at Elinor and baring his teeth in a semi-grin, semi-scowl. "Stop pulling me. I'll come on my own time." He couldn't understand why he was reacting this way, but he knew if Elinor didn't stop pulling at him, he was going to do something he would regret.

"You're..." She breathed out through her nose and bit her bottom lip so hard that Roger worried for a half second that she would draw blood. "You're holding me too tight." She didn't want to tell him she was in pain. She wondered if he would relish it, from the look in his eyes. The little shimmer in the darkness of his pupils, the way he seemed torn between grinning and growling... and that. The twitch of his fingers as he found her racing pulse in her wrist and let out a low rumble in his chest. Not quite a growl, but not a sigh, either.

"I-" Roger dropped his head and looked back up at her, all traces of the insane gone as soon as they had come. "I'm sorry," His grip relaxed, and he went to let go, but in turn she gripped his fingers again and dared to lace his fingers with hers. "I shouldn't hav-"

"It's okay." A murmur in the darkness, words Roger hadn't heard in far too long. "You didn't... it didn't hurt so bad." Her lips split into a smile and he squeezed her fingers just a little too tight. He looked away from her hand up to her face and was surprised to see a flash of pain in her eyes.

"Am I..." He looked down at their intertwined hands as he helped her to her feet, "Am I hurting you?"

"A little," She conceded after a moment, pulling her hand away and squeezing her fingers together in an attempt to regain the feeling in her fingers. "But... it's not so bad." He smiled at her again, offering his hand with the fingers together, so that their fingers clutched against each other's palms. "You're a little sticky." She said softly, a laugh colouring the tense air between them. "Shall we?" She left the question hanging in the air.

"Let's." He nodded blithely, allowing her to lead him across the damp grass towards the fast flowing water. She didn't pull this time, instead running her thumb across the back of his hands in what she thought was the most innocent of ways. His body stiffened as her lips parted in the hot air and she tugged him down to his knees at the banks of the creek. Setting the basket down, her hands dipped into the water, and she washed the sticky blood from her fingers, watching him to see if he would do the same.

"Roger?" He had frozen. She wasn't sure why, or how, but he hadn't moved an inch, and he was staring into the water as though he had seen a ghost. "Roger?" She nudged his shoulder with her own, and suddenly she was on her back in the grass, Roger's hands either side of her head and his face merely inches from hers. Without stopping to ask for permission, he took a deep breath and placed his lips against hers. _Hard_. She tensed at the sudden contact, but soon relaxed into the sensations of his lips against hers.

His hands dropped down her body faster than she could push him away, fingers pushing at the hem of her skirt and making her body tense under his hands. She whimpered at the intrusion and it was the sound that seemed to bring him back to reality.

"Ellie?"

"Back off!" She called, pushing at his shoulders and scrambling her body away from his. "I'll scream!"

"I-I..." He had nothing to say, couldn't work out the words. It was like his brain was no longer submitting the right messages to his mouth, instead throwing him all the wrong actions, making him do all the wrong things. He ran his hand over his face in exhaustion and took a deep breath. _No blood, no painted faces. He was safe, at home._"I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me... you just looked... it's no excuse." He stood up and began to walk away from her, his head hanging and his shoulders hunched.

Watching his retreating back, Elinor considered Roger's hunched form, the way that he seemingly refused to be part of the village community, even part of a friendship that, she would go as far as saying, was blossoming. She knew _of _what had happened to him - all of the children in the village had - and with them being the same age, her mother had warned her that the new boy might be bad news.

Part of her was afraid of him - the part of her that had come alive at the way he had pressed her into the floor and held her there with arms that had a strength she definitely feared - and part of her liked him. _Really liked him. _To the point that she had brought him to the small patch of grass by the river to have lunch. To the point that she had _bought _lunch with the ration stamps that her mother had been saving, and she would probably be in utter hell for it later.

_And now he was walking away. _Damnit. Though she desperately wanted to go after him, to reassure him that it was all right, half of her never wanted him near her again. She couldn't face him when she hadn't got a clue which side of his personality she was about to see.

"R-Roger?" The word stuck in her throat, but it was loud enough for him to turn around and look at her. A half smile flicked across his face, and she fought the smile that tried to rise up across her face. "Please... sit and eat?"

"No." He shook his head and refused to return to her, "I-I can't..." Another pause, "I don't want to hurt you," She pulled her hair back into one hand and squinted at him a little, "Ellie, I won't."

"B-but-" She pulled a face and watched him as he stood, "I'm not afraid, Roger."

"I am... and maybe you should be." His voice was soft, almost too quiet for her to hear his words.

"Why are you scared, Roger?"

_Because I don't know who I am. Because I want you to know me, but I don't know myself. Because I want..._

"I'm scared I'll..."

"You'll...?"

"Lose."

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_Can I be cheeky and ask for your thoughts?_


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